


je posais ma main sur des choses

by Cerberusia



Series: Ich liebe dich, mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Comeplay, Dubious Consent, Intoxication, M/M, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 06:49:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2300372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerberusia/pseuds/Cerberusia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's rewarded with a repeat of last time: the empty back bedroom, the boy on the bed, the door that locks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	je posais ma main sur des choses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rrrowr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rrrowr/gifts).



> Title is from Andre Gide's 'L'immoraliste'. The full quote is _je posais ma main sur des choses; je rôdais_. In English, it means 'I put my hand on things; I went prowling'.
> 
> The series title is from Goethe's 'Der Erlkoenig', spoken by the titular Elf-King to the boy he is trying to seduce: _"Ich liebe dich, mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt; Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch ich Gewalt."_ \- 'I love you, your beautiful body excites me; and if you are unwilling, I shall employ force.' [Ian Bostridge sings Schubert's famously difficult arrangement of the poem beautifully](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mmx4MN3xZpM).

Stiles drinks too much at the party.

He knows he's drinking too much even as he does it, a nervous flutter in the pit of his stomach: the double thrill of knowing he's doing something naughty and anticipation of what will come once he's sufficiently drunk.

There hadn't been much evidence last time: just a tiny smear of come on his side where it had been cleaned off his stomach and the hazy memory of someone touching him with big, warm hands. If it weren't for the come, he'd have dismissed it as a fragment of a wet dream - but no, it's clear that _something_ happened, and Stiles intends to find out just what.

With a bottle of cider inside him, he feels pleasantly tipsy. He remembers that mixing your drinks is meant to get you drunk faster, so he accepts a cup of something that smells like rum and orange and sips it slowly - he doesn't want to _actually_ pass out. Around the room there are people he vaguely knows in varying states of inebriation. None of them immediately stand out, but that's not really surprising. Stiles keeps sipping his drink.

Maybe twenty minutes later, he knows he's had enough: he's sleepy and confused, and it takes all his remaining awareness to get himself to a bed to collapse on. This time he'll stay conscious long enough to find out who it was. _This_ time he'll...

~*~*~

It seemed expedient to keep himself out of sight this evening; call it wolf senses, call it a hunch, but Peter's survival instincts told him to keep a low profile while waiting for his prey to come to him - no hiding in plain sight this time.

He's rewarded with a repeat of last time: the empty back bedroom, the boy on the bed, the door that locks. Stiles seems to have dragged himself in this time, and there's no evidence of an accompanying friend. Good.

This time, the first thing Peter does is to steal a kiss. Stiles' lips are just slightly open, affording him a glimpse of a tantalisingly pink tongue. Peter dips in only briefly, a bird taking a sip of nectar, before turning his attention to Stiles' pulse. He licks the skin, mouths at it, teasing himself with the knowledge that he musn't bite because Stiles won't heal like he should. He savours the steady, healthy heartbeat under the skin, traces the throat muscles with his tongue. Under the jaw, Stiles's skin is just starting to turn rough with incipient adult stubble.

Peter wants to kiss him all over, lick up his calves and thighs, bite him just at the swell of his buttocks - but he hasn't the time, will probably never have the time, and he has to content himself with Stiles' hand, drawing the fingers into his mouth and wrapping his tongue around them, tracing the bones of his wrist with his free hand. Each finger slowly disappears into his mouth: distal phalanx, intermediate phalanx, proximal phalanx. Peter licks and sucks until the salt is gone and the dull meat taste of flesh remains.

Stiles wriggles a little. Peter looks up at his face, half-convinced he'll find those brown eyes open, but still Stiles slumbers on. He doesn't seem quite as deep under as last time: Peter sucks on the pulse in his wrist, his wrists prominent under the thin skin, and his fingers flutter.

There'll be no fucking tonight, then. But Stiles surely won't think much of it if he wakes up tomorrow with a strange taste in his mouth.

Peter takes it slowly: the door is locked, the boy is passed out, the noises of the party are muffled. The only sounds are the clink of his button and the buzz of his zip. He kicks off his shoes before crawling up onto the bed, straddling Stiles' chest. Stiles twists, then settles. His knees bracketing Stiles' shoulders, Peter's breath comes fast as he presses his cock to Stiles' slightly-open mouth. Those full lips part under the invasive pressure.

The teeth prove a trickier obstacle, but Peter wriggles his fingers into the corner of Stiles' mouth and separates them enough for just the head of his cock to slide in.

Given Stiles' total lack of participation, it's not even worthy of being called a blowjob. Peter daren't push in any further in case he triggers Stiles' gag reflex, so the head of his cock lies heavy on Stiles' plush tongue, surrounded by Stiles' humid mouth.

He stays like that, feeling the muscles in his thighs flex as his hips make tiny motions back and forth, not even proper thrusts, until at last he can no longer stand it and has to pull out his cock to masturbate, stripping it fiercely. He pants loudly: he is intensely aware of the heat of Stiles' body beneath him, his soft breath washing over the wet tip of Peter's cock, the animal physicality of sex. Stiles' dark eyelashes flutter on his pale cheek. He slumbers on.

Peter falls forward to grasp the headboard in one hand, the other pressing his cock to Stiles' parted lips. He feels Stiles shift beneath him and feels no fear, only excitement. The sound of masturbation is loud and ugly in this spare bedroom with its floral bedspread and chintz lampshade, which clash horribly with Stiles' customary plaid. Peter likes it: Stiles should always stand out.

 _Stiles,_ he thinks. _Stiles, Stiles, Stiles._ He comes with a grunt, into Stiles' mouth and over his lips.

He puts himself back in order watching his come dribble from the corner of Stiles' mouth. He'd like to leave Stiles like this - a frisson runs down his spine at the thought of Stiles waking up in the morning with his mouth still full of semen - but that's a bad idea for so many reasons.

Peter braces himself over Stiles on all fours, and lowers his head to kiss him. The taste of his own ejaculate is not particularly exciting, but Stiles' scent mixed with his makes some primal part of him satisfied and calm. He explores Stiles' slack mouth with his tongue, scooping out most of the semen.

He draws back after - some time, he doesn't know how long - his mouth buzzing. There's still that little dribble in the corner of Stiles' reddened mouth: he leans in again to get it.

A pink tongue appears to poke at the come; after a second it flicks out and licks it off, promptly disappearing back into Stiles' mouth. Peter kneels over him, frozen, listening to the momentary uptick in Stiles' heartbeat.

Stiles sniffs - shifts - subsides.

Peter dares to ghost a kiss over those lips before fleeing with supernatural speed. His own heart beats too fast half the way home, when he regains his common sense and sense of chivalry and turns around.

~*~*~

Stiles wakes up with a pounding headache and a funny taste in his mouth. Weak early-morning sunlight filters through curtains he doesn't recognise. They're pretty nice curtains, as curtains go: floral, like everything else in this room he can see from his prone position on the bed. He manages to turn his head to the right and finds a glass of water: it was probably left by the last person who stayed here and is therefore be old as balls, but he'd drink that disgusting blue Gatorade right now just to wet his throat.

The water is not stale. This probably has something to do with the pair of painkillers left with it, still in their foil. Stiles assesses the probability of them having been tampered with, comes to 'pretty damn unlikely' and pops them with anticipatory pleasure. Chivalry is not dead, who knew.

He stops before taking the pills, arrested with one in his hand. He doesn't remember being left the pills, but he does remember - no, he must have dreamt that. _But_ \- he pokes his tongue around his mouth, dry-swallowing to bring up that taste again.

Yeah, that is _definitely_ not just alcohol. Wow. Kind of disgusting and definitely unsanitary, but _wow_. Does this mean he's not a virgin any more? Or does he have to get his own dick sucked for it to count?

He takes the pills and gathers the willpower to stand up, grimacing - he needs to get back home before his Dad does. And then he needs to get on Facebook and find out when the next house party is happening.


End file.
